12
LUCA
Getting Serafina into a car without an argument takes exactly as much effort as I expected.
"I don't see why we can't work from the brownstone." She slides into the back seat with the grace of a woman who's decided to be difficult efficiently.
"Because the brownstone's perimeter was compromised and I need the Moretti servers." I get in beside her, signal Caruso to move. "Two hours. In and out."
"You said that about the safehouse."
"The safehouse is still standing."
She looks at me. "That's a very low bar."
"Welcome to my world."
The corner of her mouth tugs upward. She looks away before it becomes a smile, which I pocket and say nothing about.
Moretti Global Securityoccupies floors thirty-two through thirty-five of a glass tower on Park Avenue — legitimate, visible, the kind of address that makes threats think twice. We arrive with four-man coverage, two vehicles, and Caruso running point.
Serafina walks through the lobby like she owns it.
I watch her take in the building — the security desk, the camera positions, the sight lines — and feel the specific satisfaction of watching someone operate at full capacity in a world that underestimated them. She doesn't miss anything. She never misses anything.
"Stop cataloging exits."
"Stop having so many exits worth cataloging."
We take the private elevator to thirty-four. Small car — built for discretion, not comfort — and with Caruso excluded at my instruction, it's just the two of us and forty floors of rising tension.
She speaks first.
"You're not the good guy." She's looking at the elevator doors, not me. Voice even. Thoughtful, like she's been sitting with this and has finally decided to say it out loud. "In case you thought I'd forgotten that."
"I haven't forgotten it either."
"You protect me, and you threaten people. You make decisions that get men hurt, and you do all of it without losing sleep." She finally looks at me. "That's not the good guy."
"No." I hold her gaze. "Neither are you."
That hits. I see it — a flicker, quickly controlled.
"I save lives."
"You save many lives. More than most, because you chose trauma surgery, because you put yourself in the hardest room on purpose. I'm not taking that from you." I keep my voice even. Not cruel. Honest — which with her amounts to the same thing. "But you walked away from an entire world of people who needed something else from you because it was inconvenient to your identity. That's a choice. Not a virtue."
The elevator opens on thirty-four.
She steps out. Stops. Turns back to look at me over her shoulder with an expression I've never seen from her before — not fury, not defiance. Something rawer. Like I've just named something she's been arguing with herself about for years and she doesn't know whether to hate me for it or not.
"You're brutal."
"You asked for honesty."
"I didn't ask for a scalpel to the ego."
"You're a surgeon. You know scalpels are precise." I step out beside her. "That's a compliment."
